


The Only Difference

by Nympha_Alba



Category: Sherlock (TV)
Genre: M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2011-12-30
Updated: 2011-12-30
Packaged: 2017-10-28 11:23:27
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,006
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/307367
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Nympha_Alba/pseuds/Nympha_Alba
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>When Sarah asks John if he ever considers moving out from 221B Baker Street, he laughs out loud. "Oh god. Only all the time."</p>
            </blockquote>





	The Only Difference

When Sarah asks John if he ever considers moving out from 221B Baker Street, he laughs out loud.

"Oh god. Only all the time."

Sally always says that one day they'll have a corpse on their hands and Sherlock will be the perpetrator. A much more likely scenario, John thinks, is that they'll find Sherlock with finger-shaped bruises on his neck, matching John's hands to perfection.

"So why haven't you moved out, then?" Sarah asks with puzzled eyebrows.

That's a good question. Why hasn't he?

***

 

He asks himself that again when Sherlock stumbles in at two in the morning and bleeds all over the carpet, and then all over the sofa that John helps him onto.

John's assessing fingers part fabric and pinch skin. "Sherlock, you idiot, you need to go to the hospital."

Sherlock's eyes open. "Are you a doctor," he hisses, "or are you not?"

Swearing under his breath, John stitches up the cut, sick with Sherlock's pain.

 _A dumpster_ , he decides. _I'll put him in a dumpster._

***

 

Sherlock doesn't let people into his world, and John is fine with that. Sometimes – often – he wonders what that world looks like, what it's like to be inside Sherlock's head. It must be lonely, hectic, with everything rushing through at a furious pace; voices, colours, details, smells, forming endless chains of logic. The world outside a sluggish river. The agonising slowness of other people.

John is fine, really, not being let in, as long as he's allowed to inhabit the outer rim of Sherlock's world. As long as he can stay in orbit.

***

 

It's a perfect morning for sleeping late, staying in bed, sitting by the fire. It's raining and the sky is the colour of lead. Why did he agree to meet Harry for breakfast?

She's already seated at a table when he gets there, and oh, hello, here comes the familiar jumble of conflicting emotions. It shouldn't be possible to hate someone that you love so much.

"You're not making them up, are you?" she asks. "The stories. On your blog. Your _adventures_."

John shakes his head, bites into his toast.

"He puts you in danger," she says. "You are being careful, aren't you, John? Please tell me you're being careful."

She's maudlin; she smells of booze and it's not yesterday's. It's only 10 a.m.

"Since when do you care?" he asks levelly. The latte is really good here.

"I've always liked you more than you think."

He doesn't reply.

"You're very detailed in your blog." Harry plays with a sachet of artificial sweetener; her nails are long and red. "You write about him – Sherlock – as if you really admire him. As if you're _dazzled_ by him."

"Well, he is brilliant." The spoon clinks, clinks, clinks against the inside of the mug as John stirs the coffee. It doesn't need stirring.

Harry is looking at him. "Are you in love with him?"

It takes all his willpower not to wince. "No." But it's too early in the morning to lie convincingly. Clink, clink. "... Maybe."

***

 

He doesn't really remember what happened. They were chasing someone who suddenly turned around with wild eyes, and there they were, staring into the black muzzle of a gun. And everything went silent.

Now, voices and sounds are returning, but they seem to come from far away. The world tilts and John's cheek is pressed against cold, gritty stone. He is looking at people's shoes.

 _I must keep still_ , he thinks. He doesn't know why that is so important, only that it is. Something is spreading slowly in front of him, glistening wet, a pool of dark liquid from under him. Images from Afghanistan are crowding in his head and he doesn't understand why.

Sherlock is looking at him from a weird angle, from above, and there's something wrong with Sherlock's face.

It's not until John wakes up in hospital, groggy and blurred with anaesthesia, that he realises two things: one – he's been shot, and two – Sherlock's face was streaked with tears.

***

 

A difficult case has just been closed. Sherlock is alight with adrenaline and triumph, talking at a pace that makes John give up trying to understand what's being said. He just listens to Sherlock's voice.

Whisky is the only thing that allows Sherlock come down slowly and land softly, so whisky it is. When dawn creeps in grey and the bottle is nearly empty, Sherlock gets up and pulls John into something that would have been a hug had he been someone other than Sherlock. They stand there with Sherlock's arm pressed across John's shoulder blades and John's hands hanging by his sides. He's rigid with surprise, wondering what this is, what it could possibly be – an experiment of some kind, a new weird way to take someone's pulse. Sherlock smells of soap and sweat.

They're frozen like that for a few awkward seconds before Sherlock takes a step back. His face is a mask.

John blinks, bewildered. "I – "

"Good night," Sherlock says hurriedly, thickly, and disappears to his bedroom.

When John slowly enters the stairs to his own room, frowning, it's as if the old pain in his leg has returned; the pain that isn't really there, not really in his leg but in his head. Heavy. Wrong.

***

 

"As I've told you many times," says Sherlock shakily, "I'm married to my job. I – we – I – can't do this. It would have a negative effect… on my work."

"It wouldn't," John says, his fingers continuing to unbutton Sherlock's dark shirt. The pale skin underneath is flushed, mottled pink all the way from the neck down the chest. "I mean, I love you now and it works. I love you like this. You drive me absolutely fucking insane but I don't want anything to change. It would be the same as before. But with added sex."

He looks up, and Sherlock's startled laugh pulls a smile from him.

When they tumble up the stairs there's nothing wrong with his leg, no pain, no heaviness. Nothing wrong at all.


End file.
